


Rocky Road

by Leoporidae_Lagomorpha



Category: Overwatch (Video Game)
Genre: Attempt at Humor, Borderline Personality Disorder, Canon Disabled Character, Emotional Sex, Enthusiastic Consent, Explosions, Finger Sucking, First Time, Mayhem, Nonbinary Character, Other, POV Second Person, Plot What Plot/Porn Without Plot, Rough Sex, Sweat, Trans Character
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-06-16
Updated: 2016-06-16
Packaged: 2018-07-15 11:35:55
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,122
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/7220722
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Leoporidae_Lagomorpha/pseuds/Leoporidae_Lagomorpha
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>
  <em>The heist went off without a hitch, if only everything else did.</em>
</p><p> </p><p> </p><p> </p><p>In which our favourite junkers rob a bank, Junkrat is cockblocked by explosions and Roadhog inevitably saves the day.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Rocky Road

**Author's Note:**

  * For [Kaku](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Kaku/gifts).



> for iggy's birthday who is as of today the dancing queen
> 
> junkrat is a dfab transman with he/him pronouns & roadhog is big dmab and nonbinary af

Junkrat says the heist was bloody perfect, and for once you're actually inclined to agree with him. It didn't go off without a hitch, with the two of you " _according to plan_ " is more than a little vague, but it was damn near perfect. Well as perfect as blowing out a bank vault and speeding through the streets in a burning ice cream truck causing chaos and thousands in property damage can be counted as perfect, and for you two it certainly does.

Junkrat is reclining on the seat next to you, one leg thrown carelessly over the dash and the other hanging out the window. You try to convince yourself that the only reason you keep letting yourself get distracted from the road ahead is because he keeps smearing soot on the marginally clean upholstery just to spite you. You aren't staring, besides it's generally better for your heart to keep Junkrat in your peripheral vision as often as possible. You're not staring, especially not at the play of light against his sweaty soot stained chest, not at the shiny new burns and pale crescents of faded scars or the contraction of his abs as he chuckles quietly to himself. You aren't watching his gangly limbs, or his hand resting against your thigh. You aren't staring at the stark contrast of his profile highlighted by the setting sun, angular features contrasted by wild flaming hair. You don't find him attractive sprawled gracelessly in your passenger seat, sweaty and smoking, reeking of gunpowder and kerosene, giggling like a madman and still high on adrenaline.

You are not staring.

You're tempted to stop the car and fuck him right here.

"Oi Hog," he practically slurs in that throaty smoke wrecked voice of his.

You grunt once in acknowledgement.

"Fuck me," he rasps.

You don't need to look at him to see that he's grinning. You know which one it is; the wide one with too many teeth, wickedly sharp and promising mischief.

"Just fuck me up," Junkrat practically purrs, and the hand that was resting by your leg so innocuously up till now is massaging the meat of your thigh through thick oil smeared denim.

You internally apologize for what you're about to do and take a hand off the wheel to slap it over Junkrat's leering face. He splutters, arms flailing wildly, and swears loudly when the elbow of his prosthetic leaves a dent in the dash.

"Wot wos that for?!" He shrieks fighting to pull your fingers off his face.

You patiently try to explain the importance of road safety and why you might actually need to pay attention to the road to drive.

Junkrat whines against your palm and you almost consider removing your hand when he opens his mouth and licks a wet stripe across your skin.

It sends a shiver down your spine, you hope it goes unnoticed, but you can feel Junkrat's grin against your palm and you know you've lost.

It takes eight minutes but you finally pull up by some scrubby looking bushes by the side of the road, you do kind of a shitty park job but you can't honestly care when Junkrat's tonguing your fingers like they're coated in icing sugar rather than grease and rust.

When you look down at him through the lenses of your mask he's flushed, a full body blusher, pink from head to toe and he's got your pointer in his mouth and the way he's lapping at it makes you hotter than it really should. He's making little self satisfied squeaks and he looks so smug you almost want to shove him in the face. You don't, instead you pull him forward into your lap so you can push the seat down and push him towards the back of the truck.

It takes some careful maneuvering for you to squeeze your way through but once you do he's all over you. He's everywhere at once, pulling at your hair, running over your belly and your chest, grabbing at your thighs and your ass, wrapping his legs around your thigh, kissing and biting his way across your shoulders.

His teeth are sharp, he isn't gentle, his grip is too tight, his touch rough, like he might fall off the face of the earth if he isn't touching you. You hold him because that's what you do, you hold him because you've held him more times than you can count and so you hold him because in the storm of his lips and his fingertips playing across your skin it is the only thing you can do.

There are nimble fingers prying at the straps of your mask pushing and tugging, catching in your hair and making your scalp tingle. Junkrat feels small in your arms, long and lithe and squirming against you like he's simultaneously trying to touch you and shimmy out of his shorts.

You only manage to slow down his assault by bodily holding him at arms length. He whines at the loss of contact but you ignore him in favour of pulling off your mask. The dented truck looks different without the familiar tint of your mask, looks sharper, so does Junkrat. You look down at him, at his face, he's flushed and the thin line of his lips is kiss bruised and slick with his own spit, but what steals your breath, this first time and every other time, is his goddamn eyes. His pupils are dark and blown wide like he's high, on you or adrenaline or something else that's coursing through him you just don't know, what you do know for a fact is that he wants you, so you do the only thing you should do and you kiss him.

It is more a collision than a kiss, his teeth catch on you lower lip drawing blood, but you don't care and neither does he. So you kiss him and he kisses back as ferociously as he possibly can, he kisses like he's trying to eat you alive and to be honest you really don't mind.

You let him push you against the large pile of recently liberated cash you two made off with during the heist and he follows you down, knocking a stack of bills as he climbs on your lap wearing that dangerously sharp grin of his. You watch him wiggle out of his shorts, watch the curve of his spine as he ducks his head and the sharp jut of his hip as he struggles to take off the only fabric separating you from him. Junkrat manages through sheer determination to get them down past his ass when you finally take pity on him, holding him up and shoving his shorts down the rest of the way.

It suddenly strikes you that you've never seen him without clothes, heck when you met him he was still wearing those same ratty cargo shorts. You've come close a couple of times, this isn't the first time he's kissed you and it isn't the first time you've kissed him back. But you've never seen more than he shows off on a daily basis, yet here he is, naked and flushed, scarred and sweaty, smelling like oil, plastic explosives and dirt, straddling your lap with his smoking hair and kiss bruised lips. You make a note of how even the hair below his belt is slightly singed as well.

"Like wot ya see?" He smirks, cocking his hips and dripping with self-confidence, you'd almost believe him if you didn't know how nervous he is, if you hadn't memorized the anxious way he chews his lower lip.

You nod.

There is something deeply reassuring about the way the tension in his frame melts away at your admission and he grins, and this time it's an honest grin, and he leans in and says:

"Well fuck me."

You don't have to be told twice, you pull him into another kiss. It is slick and rough and violent and you dive into it, into him. He tangles his fingers in your hair and you feel both hands, both flesh and mechanical pulling it free from your short pony tail. You don't know which you love more; the blunt drag of his fingernails against your scalp or the skin warmed metal of his prosthetic.

You aren't exactly sure when you unbuttoned your jeans, but you can pinpoint the moment Junkrat reaches down to wrap his good hand around your hardening flesh through the worn cotton of your underwear.

Junkrat is skin and bone, all angles and edges, sharpness and knees. You take your time to touch scars you've only ever traced with your eyes. He is thin, so thin that you can feel his ribs and he should feel fragile, too easy to break but instead he feels strong like if you let him he might get caught under your skin.

He slides your underwear down and suddenly he has both hands around you, flesh and metal around your length, on your bare skin, it makes you shiver, it makes him laugh and keen in excitement.

"Fuuuuck," he sighs appreciatively stroking you once, twice, before pulling off and spitting in the palm of his hand and stroking again.

He's spread out wide, straddling you, hardly touching, but you can feel him, you can feel the heat of him all over. He presses you against him, against the slickness between his legs, you grunt, he shudders and takes you in. It is hot and slick and tight and all at once and Junkrat is practically shaking around you and he's flushed _red red red._

"Fuck," he says.

You run a hand down his spine.

"F-fuck," he says again and this time it wavers. "F-fucking fffuuck," he warbles and you realize that he is crying.

"Fuuck," he wails, tears streaming down his face in earnest now.

"Jamie..." You rasp and even now your voice sounds alien to your own ears.

"Fucck," he sobs, hiccuping and sniffling, halfheartedly wiping the tears from his eyes. "I-I'm-fuck...I'm f-f-fine," he stutters. "It's-it's j-just," he heaves, gasping for air, "I-I just need a-a...I need a m-minute," he coughs.

You pull out, setting him on his back rubbing reassuring circles on his thighs, gently kissing his collar bones as he shudders through his tears.

"D-did I tell you to stop?" He growls.

You shake your head.

"Then whyd'ya pull out?" He huffs irritably.

You give him a blank look.

"It was just..." He trails off a bit sheepishly. "It wos just, it wos better than I imagined roight? It wos just, I've been waitin' so damn long an' it wos just too much. Fuck, yer my favourite goddamn person damn it and I fuckin'-"

You cut him off with a kiss.

"Get down 'ere an' fuck me ya big lug," he snorts.

You oblige.

He is tight and wet and you fuck him hard and sloppy on approximately 50 000$ of stolen currency.

Junkrat babbles and spits and claws and swears, leaves scratches on your back, bruises on your ribs and bite marks on your skin. He is a tornado, a hurricane and you're swept into his chaotic frenzy. The sound of your bodies slapping together is lewd and wet, like Junkrat's tongue in your ear.

Nothing exists except for the body beneath you.

Junkrat is taut and cursing loudly in your ear, he says he's close, you can feel him contracting around you, _you can also smell smoke_.

The traces of lighting fluid in the back of the truck are 100% Junkrat's fault, the explosion is most definitely Junkrat's fault, the spare explosives under the passenger seat are without a doubt Junkrat's fault, but the accidental burning of nearly 50 000$, now you're both to blame. Though it's definitely Junkrat's fault for having lit flames in his hair.

The mad scramble to get you both out of the burning ice cream truck has left you with nothing but a fifty dollar bill, a half melted tub of Rocky Road, a sexually frustrated, shoeless Junkrat and a scraped knee.

Junkrat is waving his arms and shouting angrily at the sky.

You fix your mask, adjust your belt, sling your loudmouthed partner over your shoulder and start the two hour walk towards your current safe house.

The heist was damn near perfect, the getaway was less than successful, but at least you've still got your weapons. You dodge an incoming blast of shrapnel as the flaming remains of the van explode for a second time, if Junkrat's anguished cries are anything to go by he's just lost about a ton of explosives, correction, at least one of you still has a weapon.

**Author's Note:**

> junkrat sits on a dick and cries: the birthday fic remix


End file.
